


Midazolam Dreams

by Anonymous



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Hand Jobs, Incest, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Parent/Child Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-05
Updated: 2020-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-12 21:47:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23020726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: For the Derry Kink Meme."Richie's all drugged up for a dental procedure and Wentworth takes advantage of him. Any kind of sedation is fine (Richie can be conscious to whatever extent or you can go full somnophilia)."
Relationships: Richie Tozier/Wentworth Tozier
Comments: 5
Kudos: 26
Collections: Anonymous





	Midazolam Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> Be wary of warnings. Don't like, don't read.

"Going to have to reduce that allowance of yours if this is how you're spending it." Richie groans and attempts speaking around the cool glass of the mouth mirror and dental pick that are scraping his bottom molars. Wentworth fixes him with a look until the teen stills, and continues teasing him in an airy tone. "I mean really. Cavities, in my son's mouth? What'll my colleagues say?"

He removes the tools from Richie's mouth and lets him spit in the small chair-side spittoon sink.

"Aw, c'mon Pops. I'm not even that bad— you should see what Haystack eats just for a snack! The kid’s a whale,” Richie finishes in his television announcer voice, but sees no reaction in his father’s face. He quickly follows up with, “I brush every night!"

"Is that so?"

"Promise!"

Wentworth stands and pulls the surgical mask down to his chin.

"I'm surprised we just happened to find that back tooth during a standard cleaning— you really haven't felt pain from it? It looks awful."

Richie runs his tongue along the smooth flats of his teeth, as if taking stock. He shakes his head and shrugs.

"What can I say? Maybe I talk so much I'm just immune to that kind of thing."

Wentworth smiles and ruffles Richie's wild, dark hair.

"Immune or not, I'm going to fix it. There's a good chance you're not going to like it, either."

Richie's eyes widen behind his thick glasses.

"How bad is it? You're not going to have to get out the drill, right?"

Wentworth nods gravely. Richie swallows thickly and adjusts his glasses.

"Shit."

"Your mother would throw a fit if she heard you talking like that."

"Sorry."

Wentworth smiles down at Richie sympathetically. The boy of a thousand voices has never been great at hiding his emotions— the way he wears them on his sleeve is part of what makes him so endearing. But now he's looking pitifully pale and Wentworth worries he’s going to pass out.

Richie always hated the drill, especially as a child. Wentworth thinks it was the piercing whine that first made him scared, and maybe some kind of fogged, half-remembered dream that sealed the deal.

"Look son, if you want I can give you some medicine to make this easier."

"You're going to knock me out? Oh, do I get the loopy gas? Tell me you'll hook me up with the good stuff."

Wentworth smiles wider. "No funny gas today. What I have in mind will keep you calm and probably make you pretty sleepy, but you'll be awake."

Richie plays with the hem of his shirt as he nods.

"Whatever you've got to do. I just hate the drill, y'know? That sound makes me feel... I don't know, weird."

Wentworth pats his shoulder before he moves to the medicine closet. He plucks up a brown glass bottle, a syringe, and alcohol wipes.

"Don't worry Rich," he says as he plunges the needle through the orange rubber cap of the brown bottle. "You won't remember a thing."

Richie eyes the syringe wearily, before sighing and shrugging again. A shot was better than the drill any day.

"Whatever you say Dad, you're the boss."

Wentworth squeezes Richie's shoulder and scrubs the inside of Richie's elbow with the alcohol wipe. Richie only flinches a little when the needle slides into his arm.

"Atta boy. Do you remember the last time we did this?" Richie furrows his brow and shakes his head. "Well, once I get this going I'm going to tell you a joke. And then you're going to count backwards from ten."

Goosebumps tingle up and down his spine, and a cold rush shoots up his arm. Had they done this before? He tries to think back to the last time he had his teeth checked up. Was it a month ago? A few months ago? It's strange, but as he mines his mind for the memory, his heart goes crazy for a second. There's an eerie anxiety rushing through him, screaming at him, _ 'Run, Richie, run. Go. You're not safe. Get out, get out, get out.'_

But Rich shakes it off as his father withdraws the needle and bandages up the little hole. No, there’s nothing to worry about. He's being silly, or paranoid, or... something. This is his dad. Richie looks at the older man, who whistles an old tune as he carefully lays out the tools on the work bench beside the chair: the drill, the pick, some kind of paste-like mix.

"Gee Rich, is there a hole in your shoe?"

“Huh?”

Richie moves his head to look down at his shoes, and is suddenly aware that his head weighs fifty pounds. He lays back against the chair. "No, 'ere's not.” Richie mumbles.

"Then how'd you get them on?"

Richie wants to snort and roll his eyes at the lame joke, but the most he gets out is a weak exhale through his nose. He can't quite get his body to move the way he wants. He looks to his dad and blinks. His eyelids are heavy too, and it feels like there's a blanket wrapping around his brain, muffling his awareness.

Wentworth pulls his surgical mask over his mouth and takes his small drill in one hand.

"Count back from ten Richie. Here, I'll start. Ten."

"Nine." Richie's tongue is heavy as he slurs it out. For once his mouth feels slow, like it's made of cement.

"Keep going," Wentworth says, watching carefully as he turns the drill on. Instead of flinching away, Richie blinks dully and for a second Wentworth thinks he overdid it. 

"Eight," Richie eventually says with a dopey grin. "Hola Papi Tozier," he says in one of his goofy voices.

"This the good stuff you wanted?" Wentworth asks. Richie breaks into a giggle and shrugs.

"Dunno," he says. "Feels good, but 'm tired though."

Wentworth glances at the clock above the door. His eyes flick to the lock, and the relief of certainty floods his chest. It's time.  
He removes one of his nitrile gloves and rests it against Richie's warm cheek. He strokes the teen's cheekbone with his thumb. Richie closes his eyes and hums at the comforting gesture. Wentworth continues to stroke until Richie's head rests dead-weight into his hand.

Wentworth has a 20 minute safe-window.

His thumb brushes across Richie's face until it's sliding across his smooth, soft lower lip. He pushes the tip of his thumb into Richie's mouth, just between his central incisors. He marvels that the teen is finally quiet, quiet and pliant.

Richie's eyelids flutter open when Wentworth pushes the rest of his thumb into Richie's, presses on the wet heat of Richie's tongue. Richie makes a confused noise, but nevertheless sucks on it obediently. 

Wentworth Tozier wonders, idly, if it's a learned response at this point. He wonders if it's just from this... or if maybe Richie's been putting his mouth to work with someone else. Maybe that Marsh girl, or even...

Wentworth shakes his head and presses his thumb deeper into Richie's mouth. Richie moans softly around it and opens his eyes. It's seeing those eyes, drugged-out and soft, framed by his new glasses that are _somehow_ bent up already that sets Wentworth off. 

"Do you know how much new glasses cost?" He asks as he removes his thumb and replaces it with his index and middle fingers. Richie groans around the fingers and squirms in the seat. "Do you, Richie?" Richie shakes his head.

He pops open the button of Richie's jeans and unzips with his gloved hand. "Of course you don't. But you will pay for them." He squeezes Richie's dick through his underwear and admires the surprised squeak Richie makes around the fingers in his mouth. "You always do."

He presses and strokes Richie through the cotton fabric until he's hard. His hips unconsciously buck up for more friction as he drools and sucks on Wentworth's fingers. He pushes his fingers further, until Richie is gagging on them.

Wentworth's dick jerks.

"Atta boy," he whispers. Richie's hips cant up again as he hums happily. Wentworth obliges his unspoken request, pulls down his underwear just enough so the waistband pushes up his balls. 

Wentworth pulls his fingers out of Richie's mouth and uses the spit as lube when he finally takes Richie's dick in hand and gives a long, slow pump.

Richie gasps and arches off the chair.

"Mm fuck," he slurs in a soft voice.

There's the trashmouth, Wentworth thinks. He gives him another pump and Richie mumbles something else, something much quieter, under his breath.

Wentworth grips Richie's throat firmly, but not hard enough to restrict his airway.

"What was that?" he asks softly. He pumps Richie faster, squeezing the head when he reaches the top until the trashmouth is moaning and babbling like a fool.

"Eds—" Richie whimpers, and then he lets out a long, loud moan that sounds like 'please'. It's too loud. Wentworth shoves his gloved hand over Richie's mouth, relishes the visible shiver that racks Richie's body.

Wentworth wishes he could jerk himself off. Maybe he'd shove his dick in and put Richie's goddamn mouth to good use. Let that wet, pink tongue lave over him until he gets bored, until he grabs Richie by the tangled hair and fucks that dirty mouth until he comes down his throat. Wentworth wonders what kind of skills his boy has been picking up.

But no, he confirms as he glances again at the clock, they don't have the time. But perhaps that was something else to explore next time. Or maybe it was something to be explored with the Kaspbrak boy on his next cleaning.

Richie makes little _"uh, uh, uh,"_ sounds as he bucks up in time with Wentworth's hand. Wentworth can't help it, he removes his hand from Richie’s mouth to hear— his boy makes such pretty noises, little cock hard and dribbling in his hand.

“Please, please,” Richie groans, so softly that the whine of the drill almost drowns it out.

Wentworth thinks about stopping, going through with the fake cavity-drilling and letting Richie wake up confused and unsatisfied.

Instead, he pumps his hand faster. He revels in the shudders that rack through Richie’s body, the way his boy’s back arches like a bow. Richie’s breath hitches and he is, for once, completely silent when he spills all over Wentworth’s gloved hand.

He doesn’t stop until Richie shivers and whines with overstimulation. He runs his knuckles along Richie’s jawline with his clean, bare hand. Then he peels off his soiled nitrile glove and throws it away. He turns off the drill, if only to think for a few minutes before he turns it back on to work on Richie’s molars.

He closes his eyes, replays the way Richie writhed from his hand. Then he takes a deep breath, slides a new pair of gloves on, and picks up the small drill again. It's a shame, really. Wentworth hates drilling into perfectly healthy teeth. But he supposes it's been well worth it. Besides, what's one more composite filling in Richie's mouth?

**Author's Note:**

> For this prompt: https://derrykink.dreamwidth.org/826.html?thread=97082#cmt97082  
The Derry Kink Meme is lonely! Go make a prompt or fill one of your own!


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